The Taste of Grapes
by Anidori-Kiladra
Summary: Ernst can still recall with perfect clarity the sensation on Hanschen's lips on his own, the smell of hay and the taste of grapes. The fourth and final installment in this sequence...series...thing.


The Taste of Grapes

a/n: Well, it's far later than I'd hoped to have this up, but here 'tis. If you haven't, it's probably best that you read "Cream" before reading this one. Unless, of course, you don't care about trivial matters like order and sense, in which case, read on.

xXx

He can still smell the fresh cut hay, and taste the exploded grapes in Hanschen's mouth when he kissed him, fermenting into fine wine.

But Ernst can't think about that afternoon anymore, or of the ones that came after, or that desperate, sweaty night he swung onto his windowsill and clambered down the siding only to be pushed back against it by Hanschen, then to slide down it in a melted heap when his knees gave out. He can't think about Hanschen's feral grin or Hanschen's hand on his belt buckle or oh God, Hanschen-

He won't allow himself to dwell on the taste of their mingled sweat when he bit into Hanschen's shoulder to keep himself from crying out and rousing the neighbors, or the foreign taste that made him shudder and gulp and bury his head in the curve of Hanschen's neck, but awakened such a hunger in him, made him desire more right then, as the stars wheeled dizzily above them, flickering on and off whenever Ernst closed his eyes.

He can't think about it anymore, because it will only be a disappointment to him when all he tastes in the morning is hard, brown bread, all he smells is the oatmeal burning on the stove.

He can't think at all anymore, except of a little church in the country where he is pastor, and comes home to find his wife feeding the chickens or beating rugs or hanging laundry out on the line. And these thoughts don't give him as much joy as they used to.

He thinks of the words he spoke that afternoon, so long ago and yet not so long after all: "I love you, Hanschen, as I have never loved anyone."

Ernst wonders why he told Hanschen this secret, why he gave him this key to his soul, when he knew Hanschen would reply the way he did, because Hanschen could never be any less Hanschen, even if he tried.

"And so you should."

Ernst wants to rage and curse and hit things whenever he thinks of this reply, given so flippantly, but he is not the kind of boy who rages and curses, and his mother would think him ill if she ever saw him hit something with no provocation. What did Ernst expect, anyway, for Hanschen to say that he loved him too? No, for all Hanschen's talk of playing Achilles and Patroclus, Ernst knows the other boy far too well to expect _that_ kind of response. After years of careful observation from behind Latin textbooks and under cap brims, Ernst knows Hanschen as he knows no one else, the same way that he loves him.

He knows that Hanschen loves only Desdemona and his saints, and only for the short while before he disposes of them. He knows that Hanschen was only looking to satisfy his own needs and that anyone would have done. He knows that it would have been only a matter of time before Hanschen disposed of him too.

So it is better that Ernst distanced himself while he still could, moved as far away as possible from the hurt he knew would come someday.

But that doesn't change the fact that he can still recall with perfect clarity the sensation on Hanschen's lips on his own, the smell of hay and the taste of grapes.

Ernst walks along, hands in his pockets, kicking at tussocks of grass, not knowing that another boy followed the same path in the same manner almost two months ago, and lost all hope. And Ernst also feels the desultory drip of hope seeped away, moment by moment.

He walks to the church, for a meeting with the pastor, whom he told, in a moment of rash and desperate uncertainty, about his dream of joining the church himself. He takes the long way, past the fields where all this started near to a year ago. Has it truly been that long? Time has been elastic, elapsed and spun out, so that Ernst would not be surprised to learn that years had passed since Hanschen kissed him, or merely seconds.

As he nears that place where everything started, where everything began, including that slow drip of all the hope from his heart, he sees that it is not uninhabited, and immediately all that hope, wretched, infidel hope, swoops back into his chest.

Hanschen stands when he sees him, and holds his hands out before him, twisting his fingers together. He does not seem like the Hanschen Ernst knows, and he opens his mouth to ask what is wrong, and, unbidden, the image of a little country church and chickens leaps into his mind, and Ernst thinks that perhaps, at long last, he understands.

And then Hanschen is kissing him, and all thoughts of country pastors and chickens scatter like so much mist. Hanschen's mouth tastes not of grapes but of dry toast and porridge, and Ernst can't think of anything he wants more.


End file.
